Gone to Summer

To be a thing that grows in air

Where wings of insects whirl and pass

And know not whether I am there

Or but a blowing in the grass;

Within the shadow of the hill

To lie so still, as root or stone,

That meadow mouse and daffodil

Surprise no flicker but their own;

So stone or green, so sifted slight,

I might be drifted on my way,

Unseen, as common to the sight;

A spar upon the wave of day;

A nearness like the night, so thinned

No bird would think to turn a feather;

And be, as lightly as the wind,

An eye in the wide weather.